River Styx
by FeelTheCold
Summary: I used to think I understood pain. A pain, a cut, a broken bone. Heartbreak. But this is if I've been dipped in the river Styx and all the suffering of all the souls that ever were or will be have soaked my body... Rated M for future chapters.


**Author's note: Lately, I've been really consumed with Fiona and Cordelia's relationship... and I still am, but I decided to take another turn and focus on Fiona's relationship with the girls in the Academy. Another Fiona/Cordelia fic that I'm really excited about posting will be posted in a few days. Until then, I hope you enjoy what I have here! **

**As always, I own nothing, but I really, really wish I did. **

**Reviews would be awesome! And feel free to send me prompts for future stories!**

**~oOoOoOo~**

Fiona's lithesome—as slender as a pin—body was settled upon a wooden armchair, the structure crafted from some of the most extravagant timber known to man—tulip tree wood. The armchair had so many smooth grooves and physically beseeching curves embedded within its consolidated framework. It was a piece of furniture that was well-suited for a woman of substantial class—panache in her nature—and dignity; an armchair that appeased the Supreme considerably.

Fiona had just stepped out of her porcelain shower, the bathroom embellished with pomegranate paint—truly a beautiful pigment to bear witness to—and ambled back into the commonplace that was her ostentatious bedroom. Fiona's room had a statuesque ceiling and a spacious breadth of accessible leeway to hustle and bustle around in.

The exhaustion that plagued Fiona's weakening body with each passing day was especially evident beneath the distinguishable sockets of her fawn oculars—the flesh bloated, almost swollen to the touch—with somber shadows outlining one of the most striking facial characteristics that was present on the woman's aging face; her eyes. Fortunately, the facial concealer that Fiona had applied—and synthesized to match the creamy tone of her flesh—seemed to camouflage the older woman's weariness quite nicely, if she did say so herself.

_Menigeal carcinomatosis. That's what the doctor called it. Tiny seedlings that the cancer planted in the lining of my spines. The little bastards are Satan's diet pills. _

_ I used to think I understood pain. A pain, a cut, a broken bone. Heartbreak. But this is if I've been dipped in the river Styx and all the suffering of all the souls that ever were or will be have soaked my body. My body doesn't belong to me—not that I'd want it in this state. I'm starting to look less Samantha and more Endora every day. And what could be more painful than having to tell your child that you're going to die?_

_The curse of mortality. You spend the first portion of your life learning, growing stronger, more capable. And then, through no fault of your own, your body begins to fail. You regress. Strong limbs become feeble, keen senses grow dull, hardy constitutions deteriorate. Beauty withers. Organs quit. You remember yourself in your prime, and wonder where that person went. As your wisdom and experience are peaking, your traitorous body becomes a prison._

Fiona wasn't one to toot her own horn… god damn it, she couldn't even lie to herself. Fiona loved tooting her own horn, talking boastfully—as it was noteworthy—of her garish lifestyle; the places she'd visited, the celebrities she'd met. Peering at her own reflection—a reflection that gazed back at Fiona, her own eyes staring back at her almost penetrating her blackened soul—Fiona concluded that she looked damn good for her age, certainly a great deal more attractive than any of Cordelia's spring chickens.

_I'll stay alive just to spite them._

With a delineated face—sheathed in the finest of beauty products—and hair that was strewn in lovely, effervescent curls from Fiona's scalp, she finally acknowledged the knock at her bedroom door, and the frail—undeniably skittish—voice that followed. So, some of the girls that occupied this house really did possess some refined social behaviors, huh? Fiona thought she would have never seen the day…

_"Ms. Goode?"_

Fiona's surname flowed from the tongue with such finesse and abandon—carelessness—that it evoked a genuine smile so spill from her lips, gracing—and embellishing—a face sumptuous face that deserved to be bedecked with such a simper, her ivory canines showcased, as well.

Fiona was—if being honest with herself—comparable to Charlotte Brontë herself; a British novelist with an impeccable accent, and a grand aura about the woman to compliment the articulation of her words.

The woman was well aware of the presence that was looming outside of her bedroom door—quite possibly brooding, eager for a reply that originated from the Supreme's coral lips—but Fiona wasn't in any scramble—using every sense of the word—to deliver a response.

Fiona often found that the anticipation of something was a considerable deal greater than the actual act itself. Fiona didn't have all day. She certainly didn't have time to spare—precious time, time that could have been utilized whilst doing something productive, like choosing a pair of stiletto heels that weren't even existent on her pampered feet yet, or time that could have been used to choose another dress, for Fiona wasn't quite in the mood for the Valentino floral lace panel dress that cradled every nook and crevice that existed on Fiona's body. She would have much rather preferred a garment from the Merchant Archive Collection, a butterfly dress that hung loosely, but praised the donner's shape.

Finally giving in, whilst in the middle of getting up to cross the bleak canvas that was situated beneath Fiona's feet, she glanced at the door, a sordid expression plastered upon her face, on display for the _ignorant child_ that lurked behind that door—if they hadn't already given up and abandoned their cause; a reality that Fiona was entirely in favor of.

"Enter," she murmured—her tone hushed, but loud enough for the visitor; or, intruder, rather, to hear.


End file.
